An Ever-Fixéd Mark
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: 1942, and when Sorelli visits Philippe in the Midhurst Sanatorium on the eve of a major operation that risks his life almost as much as it promises to save it, she wrestles with how to tell him of her feelings.


**A/N: Title from Sonnet CXVI (116), by William Shakespeare.**

**Fic is the result of much rumination, a prompt from Bogglocity requesting a Hospital AU and an Interrupted Declaration of Love.**

**This fic very much references actual radical surgical treatments for pulmonary tuberculosis which were used from the 1920s up until the late 1940s and the introduction of streptomycin, and thereafter in the absence of antibiotics.**

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On the last day, she does not bring him any books. She brings only herself, a heart aching with feelings that she cannot begin to reconcile, the fear deep beneath it all that she might never get the time to.

(With the war, if it were not for this, they may not have had all of the time they have gotten, but still the words are a ball deep in her throat.)

He is pale and drawn propped in bed, hollow circles under his eyes, but he musters a smile for her that is almost as bright as the first smile he ever gave her, on the night he took her by the hand, and swept her away.

(1936, an after-party on the banks of the Liffey, and he recognized her from her performance and smiled at her and asked if she would like to dance, and she did not know him, did not recognize him as the writer who wears a defunct title like a second skin, all she knew was that his eyes were bright and his blond hair was falling over his forehead and he was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and he wanted to dance with her.)

He is a shadow of the man he was then, barely thirty-five and aged impossibly, and how she longs to take him in her arms and restore him to how he should be, but there is no magic that can do it, only medicine and time and hope, so much _hope_ she thinks she might die of hoping, but his beauty lingers in the lines of exhaustion carved beneath his eyes, in the sharpened planes of his face, the softness of his lips and the gentleness of his fingers as they twine with hers.

(He has not been sleeping — the night sweats, the pain in his chest, the difficulty of breathing lying flat on his back, the crashing of bombs on London in the distance, that seems to grow closer every night. The thinking of her, in the middle of it. Raoul, at least, is safe, sent to an aunt in Ireland, far away from this, and the temptation to lie about his age.)

When she was last here, two weeks ago, the young Dublin medical student was still sharing this room with Philippe. But that boy (he seemed so much a boy, though he was older than Raoul, could not have been much younger than her, and he spoke so softly of the girl waiting at home for him to get well) is gone now.

He was reading even more books than Philippe, and he had his little radio, his features a focused frown behind his spectacles, but he always had a smile to see her coming in. (She thinks her accent might have been a comfort to him, softened by her years in England but there nonetheless, so different from the faint aristocracy of Philippe's voice, his lilting touch of French.)

The room is oddly empty without him.

It is on the tip of her tongue to ask, but she cannot find the words.

(What if he's died? And that girl waiting for him to get well…)

Philippe's forehead is warm and damp beneath her lips, his fingers cool between hers.

"He had it done the other day." Philippe's voice is low, lower than she is used to hearing it, even now. There is no need to ask what _it_ is. There is only one _it_ that matters now, and she swallows, willing her heart to steady, waiting for his next words. "The nurses say he almost bled to death on the table. They haven't wanted to move him back yet, just in case."

There is the barest edge to his voice, an implicit preparation, as if he is reminding her (reminding himself) that that could be him next. That he might be lucky, to come through as well as that.

There was talk they would be taking six of his ribs, from the left hand side, a usual procedure. But in his last letter he told her they will only be taking sections of two, that they have judged his health too precarious for more, and that they fear the toll of gas would be too much for him, so it will be a local anaesthetic.

In her work in London, since she's volunteered as a nurse (partly for the war effort, partly as a reason to be able to stay close to Philippe), she's been dealing with medical cases more than surgical ones, but she knows enough of surgery to know the thought of him, aware as they cut through his chest, and crack his ribs, is more than she can bear.

She should tell him. Should tell him now in case she never gets another chance.

How can she tell him? How can she put something like this on him?

He feels the same, she knows he does, though they have never spoken of it. Philippe is an abrupt man, if he did not feel the same he would never tolerate her presence, he would not have kept writing her after his diagnosis, would have considered it inappropriate, and maybe it was, and maybe she was a fool to keep writing him, to visit him and bring him books and not cut him out of her life. There are plenty of people who would consider her continued contact with him the height of idiocy, when they are not married, and there has never been any promise.

But she cannot help how she feels.

She does not _want_ to help how she feels.

A tear shines in his left eye, and gently she brushes it away, even as answering tears prickle in the backs of hers. She has wanted to cry for days, ever since she heard the news, the odd relief that he is suitable for surgery and the terrible fear of it too, the confirmation of just how ill he is, but she will not cry now, not in front of him, so help her but she will not put that on him.

And if she tells him she loves him...could she? Should she?

If he were going off to war, and not to surgery, would she tell him?

In a fair world, in a normal world, she would not have to wonder. There would be no war, there would be no illness, and she might have told him by now but if she had not it would not matter because there would be plenty of time, always plenty of time.

Damn the Germans. Damn the war. _Damn_ his tuberculosis.

Damn that most of all.

Sixteen months in this place and he is only worse, after all of his treatments. How can she know he will be better after this? That sweet medical student, his life in such danger still, and who is to say that will not be Philippe?

And suddenly it's too much for her, the thought of not seeing him again, the thought of his bleeding to death on the table. The thought of doing nothing and his disease getting worse and worse until it kills him. Either way she cannot win. He might die in the morning, he might die in three months' time, and she will not have told him, and he deserves to know, he deserves that and a whole world more.

He might be dead by now, if he had not left Dublin for here, if he had not seen the difference in treatment, if he could not have afforded to travel. He might already be dead, and would she have told him then?

She swallows, and kisses his fingers, and whispers, "I lov—"

His finger is soft against her lips, cutting her off. "It's not goodbye," he whispers, his beautiful voice hoarse. "I won't let it be goodbye."

The tears well in her eyes, fresh ones shining in his, and she shakes her head. "But what if—"

"No buts." He smooths his thumb over her cheek. "There'll be time afterwards, all of the time in the world, I promise." His eyes are earnest, searching hers, willing her to say yes, willing her to believe him, but how can she? How can she in the face of all of the risks she knows? "You don't need to say it." His voice is fainter than she has ever heard, so faint it is barely a breath.

"I just want you to know." Her voice is as low as his, her heart throbbing, and his lip quirks.

"How could I not?" He squeezes her fingers gently. "And I hope you know—"

If there is no need for her to say it, there is no need for him to either. There has never been any need, when she has known it from the first time he drew her to him, and asked her to stay until morning.

"I do." She breathes it with all the sacredness of a vow, and a tear trickles down his cheek as he nods.

"Will you come see me afterwards?"

Of course she will. Of course. How could she bear to be anywhere else? "Just as soon as I'm allowed."

Another glimmer of that soft smile, a fresh tear slipping down his cheek. "I'll look forward to it." And she knows he means, _during the surgery_, and if that's all she can do, give him something to look forward to, something to cling to for afterwards...

She'll tell him then, when she sees him again. It's one thing knowing, it's another to use the words, and he might not need the words now, but he will then, and she will too.

She smiles, and his lips are soft, brushing hers, a promise, and a wish.

Gently, carefully, she cups the back of his head, and draws him closer, and gives him every bit of her unspoken love in her kiss.

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**A/N: Philippe's experience of surgery is very much inspired by that of Dr Noël Browne as a patient in the Midhurst Sanatorium in 1942. The procedure whereby six of Philippe's ribs would have been removed was known as a thoracoplasty, the theory being that the lung would collapse and rest, and the disease would not be able to progress. The procedure he is actually to endure — the removal of sections of two ribs, and injection of air into the remaining cavity to collapse part of the lung — was extrapleural pneumothorax, used when thoracoplasty was deemed too dangerous. Both procedures led to permanent disability. Browne's own experience of having parts of two ribs removed was a success in that he survived and the disease went into remission, but a failure in that the space that was supposed to be occupied by air was instead occupied by blood, his having bled extensively during the operation, which he endured under a local anaesthetic. The cavity remained filled with blood for the rest of his life, and when he underwent a medical examination in 1948, the lung that had been operated on was deemed to be almost completely useless, as a result of both the surgery and the disease. He was 26 at the time of the operation, and served as some inspiration for the young Dublin medical student referenced in this fic.**

**If you've enjoyed this fic, please do let me know!**


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